


Thanks for the Memories

by AshToSilver



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, consensual incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshToSilver/pseuds/AshToSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By seven, they're two grades ahead and still top of their class. The most frequent joke concerning them is that they're communicating telepathically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for the Memories

**Author's Note:**

> As a heads up, this contains very light, underage consensual incest between siblings. This is a prequel to a story I'm gearing up to ~~rip all your hearts out~~ make you emotionally devastated. If you get upset, don't blame me, Mads requested I ruin her over on the Bat Jokes Forum. This'll make a ton more sense when I release the next installment.
> 
>  **EDIT Aug/2016:** I have changed my username, I am now going by AshToSilver on AO3 and [my new Tumblr](http://ashtosilver.tumblr.com/)! You can still call me Alex, but I no longer have a day of the week in my name.

There's a tape, labeled in a doctor's messy scrawl, dated for the month of January. It's kept under a mattress. _  
_

_A camera clicks on, flickers for a moment as it's adjusted, and steadies._

_A woman pushes herself back in an old wooden rocking chair. It's one of many relics of the Wayne Manor Nursery, not used since Thomas Wayne was a child himself._

_But the room is not a relic. The walls are bright with a fresh coat of paint. The cots, changing tables and other numerous necessities are clean, primed and set up. Just waiting for the big day._

_"So how's the woman of the hour?" Comes the chuckle from the camera-bearer. "Not feeling too shabby, Martha?"_

_Martha Wayne smiles. She's tired, it's obvious. She's eight months in, and it's hard. But still, she glows, bright in a bright room, happy in a happy house."Just waiting for the knock." She says, gives a wink and both of them laugh._

_Suddenly, Martha gestures for her husband's hand, the excited flutter so common these days. The hand not holding the camera extends into frame. Fingers entwine, matching wedding rings sparking briefly and then the joyous woman presses Thomas's hand to her swollen belly._

_"Can you feel that?" She gasps. "Kicking up a storm. I think someone's a bit eager to get out."_

_Thomas laughs, but his fingers flutter so tenderly for a moment, his own happiness radiating from somewhere out of sight. "Passionate little fellow, isn't he?"_

_For a moment, the Waynes lapse into their own content silence, enjoying a moment of peace. Then Martha's face lights up again, and she shifts Thomas's hand, to the other side of her belly._

_"Look whose brother just woke up." Martha chuckles. "I can feel the competition already brewing." Thomas jerks his hand back as the other occupant of Martha's womb gives a powerful kick, and he laughs with her._

_"My two boys." The father-to-be coos, the sound of air becoming predominate for a moment as the camera is shifted, and then deposited on a side table. It casts a new, odd angle on the two, Martha's face sliding in and out of frame as she rocks back and forth, but that slows, and stops, as Thomas enters frame and kneels at Martha's feet._

_The man leans over, closes his eyes and places a soft, slow kiss on Martha's stomach. He leaves himself there, eyes still close, hands softly laying on both previous kick-sides. Martha rests her hands on his shoulders, the family as close as they can get for now._

_For now._

_Their peace is shattered a moment when Thomas leaps back with a yelp. "One of them kicked me in the cheek!" He cries, and his wife falls back against her chair in hopeless laughter._

_The sound of their mirth, their happiness, echoes throughout the room until the camera clicks off._

There's ten photographs tucked into a blank leather journal. Each one is dated February 19th, one year apart.

_Thomas Jr. and Bruce are wrapped in baby blue blankets, eyes still closed, completely identical. Martha looks tired, Thomas Sr. looks like the world has finally become the place he always wishes it was. It's the day of their birth._

_Bruce and Thomas Jr. have earned nicknames. They're Bru and Tom, being cooed over at a birthday party full of_ _neighbours and friends. The adults are laughing as Bru inspects wrapping paper with a serious look he'll prefect over years. Tom seems dubious of his brother's interest. They are one year old._

_It's age two. They're walking. They're talking. Tom is staring into the camera lenses with intensity and curiosity. It's a trait they display more then anything else. There's party hats and Thomas Sr. is in the background, pressing a kiss to Bru's face. The toddler seems to be humouring him._

_They've yet to display any differences in appearances. By year three, they go through periods of growth, one quickly becoming different, only for the other to quickly catch up. Here, they are completely identical, down to the looks of surprise on their faces at the birthday presents._

_By four, they're twice as smart as they should be. It's technically three hours before the party, and all the cake is gone. There's not a crumb on either of them, not a shred of evidence. If not for the looks of guilt on their faces, you'd have never known they ate it at all._

_It's outside, oddly bright and warm for late winter. The twins are chasing around a herd of other five-year-olds, as the parents look on. There's something strange about the way they run - like they're hunting everyone else in a game of cat and mouse. Nobody seems to notice, however._

_It's hours after the party. They're huddled on the same chair in the library, a massive tome open across both their laps. Bru is tracing careful fingers along each line. Tom is mouthing the word 'Definition'. It's a dictionary. They're enthralled. They're six._

_By seven, they're two grades ahead and still top of their class. The most frequent joke concerning them is that they're communicating telepathically. In this picture, their mouths are open as they speak in unison. They've got it down to an art form._

_At age eight, they plan their own parties. Both of them are overlooking all their guests. Their hands are clasped behind their back, their faces blank with sternness. They're enjoying themselves far more then the screeching children letting themselves loose in the manor._

_This picture is slightly out of focus. It wasn't taken by Martha. The boys are sleeping beside one another, curled around the other like a puzzle. There are tear-tracks down both of their faces.They are nine and they are alone._

There are two journals and a video tape under the mattress in a cell too small for anyone to live in. One journal is blank. The other has one-lined entries, without names or dates. There is absolutely no difference between Thomas or Bruce's handwriting, but both of them have written, often one right after the other.

The first page looks like this;

_We have been taken from our home. They said it was for the greater good._

_Alfred was shot. I wiped the blood of Bru's forehead._

_We miss our parents._

_Why is everyone dead._

_We don't know where we are._

_They won't let us out._

The second page is different.

_We have been informed._

_Bru was suppose to be a hero. But he would have broken laws to do it._

_Tom was going to turn out to be a criminal. I don't believe it._

_We couldn't become those things._

_I never stole anything._

_I'm not a good person._

_Maybe if I was bad, I'd have killed the man who killed our parents._

_If I was good, I could have saved them._

_Father was a good person._

_So was mother._

_They were heroes._

_They loved._

For a long time, there are no entries. The next time there are words, the writing's different. It's older, more mature. They still write the same.

_I am not a good person._

_I am filled with hate_.

_One day, I will kill everyone here._

_You can't save anyone._

_Neither can we_.

The next entries follow along as if the previous ones were never made. There are pages and pages, that span years.

_Our room hasn't changed at all. But now we're allowed into other rooms, there are more kids here. They all say they were destined for something._

_It's all horrible. None of them came with siblings. Some aren't allowed to talk to each other. Apparently, it's a bad idea._

_We are not allowed to resume our schooling, apparently we may 'use it against them'._

_Surely if they are doing this to protect people, they wouldn't have anything to worry about._

_We meet with a therapist. It's dull._

_Apparently it's going to be a weekly thing._

_Today the therapist explained how to make friends. I hate the whole idea already._

_Apparently it's useful though._

_The therapist told us we shouldn't depend so much on each other._

_She later reversed that and told us it was a good thing. She's lying. Someone told her to say that._

_They want to cripple us. Make us weak._

_It won't work._

_The therapist said we should try to remember her name._

_I told her she was useless._

_She cried._

_The therapist brought out puppets._

_Bru cried._

_Tom cried._

_We faked it._

_Suckers._

_Fuckers._

_The therapist explained appropriate language. We told her we were not allowed to learn things and therefore could not use that knowledge._

_I think she's starting to hate us._

_The therapist asked us what we thought of our destinies. She said she knew everything we were suppose to do with our lives, and her organization had stopped the bad things from happening._

_I asked if she'd known that our parents were going to die._

_I asked why they didn't stop that._

_She wouldn't answer._

_The therapist explained sexual attraction. She said we were not to kiss anyone without asking first._

_I asked Bru._

_The therapist said we were not suppose to kiss our siblings._

_She said it was 'wrong'. I asked her if it was wrong to let people die if you knew you could save them._

_The therapist would not see us this week._

_Tom says we 'make out'. I think he heard that in a movie._

_Shut up. You love me._

_Of course._

There is a massive stack of scrap papers and letters, all wrapped in bright purple string. It's sitting under the mattress, next to the journals and the tape. Squashed flat by the pressure.

The top one reads as followed, in three different styles of writing;

_i saw u akross the room hi my nme is joseph_

_are you twins, that's cool, we're triplets. i'm JACK ~~SON~~  IE._

_tis other 1's caled jeramy_

_They call us the clowns. Who are you?_


End file.
